Midori Noir
by Taidine
Summary: Fifteen years after the series, Lettuce is working as a private investigator in America. She wants to leave her old life behind - but when one of her former colleagues shows up on her doorstep with a murder to investigate, she can't resist taking the job
1. Primus

_Author's Note:_

_I have used the English spellings of the Mews' Japanese names. Keep in mind Japanese speakers will probably pronounce Lettuce, Mint, and Pudding as 'Retasu,' 'Minto,' and 'Purin.'_

_Rated T for strong language; this is a detective story, after all._

_Finally, _A La Mode _does not exist in my personal canon. So although all the Mews get screen time, there's no Beri. Just... no. _

_~Taidine_

**. Primus . **

It was a dreary day, but at least my coffee was hot, and in this town that's the best you can hope for some mornings. With the clouds smeared across the sun like a burial shroud and the air clinging to my skin, damper than this morning's shower, I should have known it was going to be one of those mornings, but I took the coffee to be a good omen, and I was smiling when I walked up the stairs to my office. Shoot me – I'm an optimist.

I opened the door, wincing at the creak it gave. I was going to have to shell out some money to fix that soon. I could only hope I'd have enough after this month's rent. My secretary was sitting with his chair tipped back and his heels up on his desk, which always made me wince even though I _knew_ the mahogany was faker than a con-man's diamond. "Joe-kun, all feet should be on the floor," I growled. He let the chair tip forward. "I meant yours!"

"Jesus, boss, you're crankier than usual this morning," Joe whined, taking his feet off the desk. I knew they'd be up again as soon as I left, but as long as he took them down for me and for customers, we could live in a state of compromise. "Want some cheering up?"

"Does it involve money or the termination of your contract?" I asked tetchily, sweeping up the mail on the surface of the desk to see if any of it was important. Junk. Junk. Junk. Bills I couldn't pay. I threw them all into the hearth – on principle, since there hasn't been a fire lit in that thing in the last century or so. I think the chimney's blocked up, and I don't really want to find out.

"Aw, come on, I have to get those out later," groused Joe, giving me a look that wouldn't have been out of place on a kicked puppy. "Cheer up. Not only am I staying with you for what looks like most of eternity, but you've got a client waiting in the office."

"A client? Why didn't you say so earlier?" I asked, instantly perking up. Maybe this one would even pay for my services.

"'Cause you were too busy reprimanding me," Joe answered, letting his chair tip down again with a thump and getting up to rescue the mail from the fireplace. "I don't like the look of him."

"No?" I asked. Joe had good instincts, whatever his flaws.

"Rich, slimy type. Thinks he's too hot to handle."

I laughed, a little giddy at the prospect of work – maybe even paying work. "I get it. You're jealous, Joe-kun. Guess I'll have to go see for myself then. Ja ne!"

The outer door was as flimsy as the rest of the building, but it had my name on the front in gilt letters and the words 'Private Investigator' below, just in case anyone hadn't known what kind of idiocy they were getting into. The inner door, to my office proper, was just as thin, without even the classy touch of a name. It swung open at a touch – at least this one didn't creak.

Well, there was a client waiting in the office, and one glance was enough to tell me he would be nothing but trouble. To start out with, he was one-hundred-percent melt-in-your-mouth gorgeous; blonde hair, blue eyes, tall and leggy, with a slender wiry frame that couldn't have appealed more to my Japanese-grown aesthetic. To continue, I knew him, and Joe couldn't have been more right – a man more cocksure, rich, and slimy I have yet to meet. I treated him to a long, slow, considering stare, then drawled in my most lethargic American accents: "Shirogane-san."

"What, that's it, Midorikawa-san?" He replied. "Where's my special squeak, and the blush you save just for me?" The statement was in flawless Japanese, and it had been long enough since I heard my native language that I had to consciously switch gears. The bastard was clearly trying to put me off-balance.

"Can it, Shirogane," I snarled back in English, deliberately dropping his honorific. "This is business, so tell me what you want to hire me for or get out."

"You've changed, haven't you?" he asked, leaning in close to look me in the eyes. His face was inches from mine – cue flower petals and swirly borders. Irritated, I snatched a manila envelope from the stack on my desk and interposed it between us.

"Yeah, I have." Alright, so back in the old days I'd had a major crush on Shirogane. I'd even say we were close, except he only had eyes for Ichigo, just like everyone else. He had never seen me as more than a tool. But the damn bastard knew he could use his looks to manipulate people, and I had been a naïve pigtailed little girl, so here we were fifteen years later and I guess it's only natural he would try the same moves on me. Not happening. Jerk. "Now, I'll ask you again. What the hell do you want?"

He leaned back against my desk, pushing down the manila envelope between us with one finger so he could regard me gravely over the top edge. "I've got a case for you. Two thousand a day plus expenses and enough to fix the spelling of your name on the office door."

"The office door is fine, but as long as that's dollars and not yen I'll consider it," I answered. The door in question read 'Retasu Midorikawa,' since a phonetic rendering of my name appeared exotic where the proper English spelling – 'Lettuce' – just looked like the main component of a salad. "What's the mystery, then?"

"You might want to take a seat," Shirogane told me. I crossed my arms over my chest. I could take it. He sighed. "Fine.

"Masaya Aoyama is dead."


	2. Secundus

_Author's note:_

_ Sakuuya – Thank you for your kind review! It brings up a good point, to which I feel the need to respond…_

_It's true that Lettuce changes character drastically, but this story is as much about magical girls meeting reality as it is a murder mystery. A lot of the action hinges on the canon background existing (the entire story is already written out – I never start posting before I'm done writing). I hope I manage to blend the magical girl and pulp tropes without too much incongruity, but I admit it leads to an odd tale._

_In other news, I forgot to disclaim the story. Well, Tokyo Mew Mew most certainly does not belong to me, or it would be a very different story._

_~Taidine_

**.Secundus.**

"Aoyama-kun?" I breathed. All right, I admit it, Shirogane had managed to shock me. Of all the Mews, I wouldn't have expected Ichigo's husband to be the target of any ill-will, let alone a murder plot. Unless… "Was it one of those strawberry-heads? Thought he wasn't good enough for her?"

The cult of celebrity had hit our charismatic leader harder than any of the rest of us when our identities went public, some months after the aliens had been safely dealt with. She had developed a freakishly devout band of followers, trapping her forever in her _kawaii_ image, poster-child of the Mews in general and often Japan as a whole. The fact that she had aged well didn't help – at thirty, she could still be mistaken for a teenager. The rest of us had gotten older, faced the hardships of the world, and moved on. Ichigo was the only constant. Even her marriage to Masaya, as inevitable as it had seemed to all of us when he got back from his travels abroad, had taken years to go through. The last time I was in Japan was for their wedding; I had already set up shop here in New York by then.

"No. There are only four suspects. How safe is this office?"

"Depends on how many people saw you walk in," I replied.

Shirogane sighed. "I have an apartment not too far from here. Could you come with me there?"

"I've got a reputation to worry about, Shirogane-san," I joked, but really I had no reason to refuse. After all, the chances of getting two clients in one day were lower than the chances of a cool summer day in Kyoto, and if anything really urgent came up, well, Joe knew how to get in touch with me. Besides, I was intrigued. People didn't often take me seriously enough to hire me for murders, and Aoyama-kun… he sure didn't seem like the kind of person anyone would want dead. Despite his connections with the aliens, from what I remembered he was sweet, well-mannered, and had about as much spine as a jellyfish. That sort didn't make enemies.

"Well, I have a reputation to worry about too," Shirogane retorted. "And if I'm seen walking into my residence without a pretty girl on my arm, I won't be keeping it."

"You're like the worst parts of Kiechiiro," I told him. "When did that happen?"

"It's been a long time, Lettuce-san," he answered, and for a second he sounded almost wistful. "Everyone's changed."

"Right. Go call your car," I told him. "I need to grab a few things."

I packed up my purse with the usual necessities and told Joe I was heading out for a while. He gave me a knowing smile, but I shook my head in response. "It's just business, Joe-kun. Keep your feet off the desk and have coffee ready by the time I get back. After dealing with Shirogane-san, I'll need it."

"Hey, how come he gets to be 'san'?" Joe whined, with the usual _otaku_ ignorance – he knew just enough about Japanese culture to know that nuances existed, but not enough to understand what they implied. I ruffled his hair on my way out – he's really just a kid, even if he is an able secretary.

Shirogane met me around the front in a black car with tinted windows and 'I'm not conspicuous at all' written all over it. But not literally, thank goodness. He rolled down the windshield, tipped down his sunglasses, and told me to get in. Even for Shirogane, it was a mighty contrived display.

"What are you trying to prove, Shirogane-san?" I asked as I slid into the sumptuous leather backseat.

"I don't need to prove anything. I've just got style," he told me smugly, with a self-satisfied million-watt smile. I didn't punch him. After all, he was paying me. Instead, with utmost self control, I looked out the window at the city. We were heading for the richest part of town, but it didn't matter. The corruption was visible everywhere, the dying concrete, the trash and detritus, the crimes and the secrets. New York's a bitch.

Gotta love this city.

Shirogane's apartment was one of the nicest I've ever been in. Penthouse suit, of course, in a building with a pair of door guards and a bank of elevators, all framed in gilt and marble. Plants that I couldn't determine the authenticity of peeped out as us from nooks in the walls, broad windows let in the dingy daylight, and the whole thing smelled like a million dollars. When we finally arrived at Shirogane's suite, it was full of burgundy carpets and mahogany furnishings – real ones, of course, not like my cheap-ass Ikea-with-varnish desks and chairs.

"In here," he told me, unlocking a paneled wooden door with an ornate iron key. There was a second door behind it, reinforced metal, clearly built to intimidate rather than impress. That one yielded to a hand scan and a card he produced from one pocket.

"I admit I'm impressed with the security," I told him as the second door slid open. Inside was a room full of computers – all monitors, dials, and blinking LEDs lighting it up like a starry night sky.

"Thanks," he answered. "Welcome to what's left of the Mew Project; one of a series of stations around the world that monitor for traces of alien energy. Just in case. Come on in."

I entered, feeling the darkness close around me as Shirogane shut the heavy door. "So." He moved his hand over the screen of one computer, bringing it to dim wakefulness. On screen was a map of the world; faint ripples occasionally expanded from some point or another, then folded back in on themselves and vanished. "Two days ago, Aoyama-san, along with all of Tokyo Mew Mew except you, attended a reunion party at Mint's mansion in California. It was just a publicity stunt, trying to get more sponsor positions; Mint-san planned and hosted the whole thing. Why didn't you go, anyway?"

"I'm not a Mew anymore," I told him firmly. "That life is over." Because every time I saw my old teammates was another chance to fall back into the role of timid, squeaking Lettuce-chan, was why, and I'd come to like competence. I didn't knock things over nearly as much when I was on my own, weird as that may sound.

"Well, maybe it's a good thing you didn't. At nineteen hundred hours, Aoyama-san went out on the balcony to get some air, which as you may know, overlooks a river. No-one saw him again at the party. Ichigo-san went looking for him at midnight because she wanted to go home, but being unable to find him, assumed he left earlier, so took leave herself.

"At seven hundred hours the next morning, a body with DNA matching Aoyama-san's turned up some miles downstream from the river running past Mint-san's house."

I bit my lip, contemplating the story. "That's not much to go on. How do you know it wasn't a suicide? And why are you being so secretive?"

"Because at nineteen and thirty, the remaining alien monitoring stations picked up this signal." Shirogane hit a few keys, and the computer screen flickered, then settled. Green concentric circles were pulsing outward from a point somewhere on the islands of Japan. "The precise coordinates the signal originated from are the coordinates of Mint-san's house."

"You're saying aliens killed Aoyama-kun?" I asked skeptically. I certainly hadn't been expecting more trouble from them so soon.

"No, that would show up as red. This is a similar but distinct type of power – the energy that imbued the Mew Aquas, and the amulets I gave the five of you."

"So what _are_ you saying?" I asked. I thought I knew, but I hoped I was wrong.

"Only five people on Earth have energy with that signal. Four of them were at the party that night. This was no accident or suicide. Aoyama-san was killed, and the only suspects are your former teammates."


	3. Tertius

**.Tertius.**

Let me try to explain the full impact of Shirogane's statement. If you're over the age of twenty you've heard of the Mews, but maybe you've been living under a rock or maybe you're younger: they – we – were innocence incarnate. Friendship speeches and washboard chests, no matter how revealing the stupid frilly outfits we wore happened to be, were our trademark. An ever-smiling group of middle school girls fighting to save the world from a monolithic, planet-destroying evil. God, were we charming. The public loved us. But death wasn't something that happened in our world. There was no evil that couldn't be redeemed and no injury that couldn't be healed with love, compassion, and goddamn sparkles. So the idea of one of the Mews committing a murder seemed to me more far-fetched than the idea of squirrels trying to stage a coup against the government.

"Not funny, Shirogane," I said, turning away from the computer. He just looked at me, though, and there was nothing disingenuous in those sky-blue eyes of his.

"I wish I were kidding," he said. We were speaking English solidly now. I thought I had won a small victory.

"Could it have been someone else using a Mew Aqua?" I asked. Sheer disbelief was impeding the instincts I had developed over long years at this job.

"Impossible. You five found all of them, and they were consumed in the final battle," he answered. Right; our _deus ex machina, _putting everything to rights. We hadn't had to face consequences back then either. I've missed that.

"And you haven't been running experiments on any other unsuspecting but suspiciously attractive girls in the past decade?" I continued. "I understand your first batch is getting kind of old."

"I'm not the pervert you apparently think I am," said Shirogane stonily, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Sure. The fact that the five people you recruited 'accidentally' for your superhero team were pretty girls around your own age is complete and total coincidence," I spit back. "And you had no idea that using your magical science would end up with us dressed in corsets and frilly damn _bloomers._"

"You've had a lot of time to think about this, haven't you?" Answered Shirogane. "I didn't pick anyone and I most certainly didn't design the outfits. I didn't have that kind of time with an alien invasion on my hands. Get over yourself."

"Bullshit," I answered, and began pacing. "So it was one of us. Not me, I was in New York."

"Not Mint-san, she was giving a speech at the time and has nearly a hundred witnesses to provide an alibi," Shirogane added. "We're looking at Zakuro, Pudding – and Ichigo."

"Who are all in Cali. Why are you bringing me into this case again, Shirogane-san? I'm sure there are plenty of private investigators closer to the incident you could have hired."

"Would you believe me if I told you I wanted to see you?"

I laughed. "Not very goddamn likely. Well, if you want to pay for plane tickets, that's your problem."

"Plane tickets?" Shirogane asked, smiling wickedly. "I was going to fly you there myself."

Ryou Shirogane has a private jet.

Of course Ryou Shirogane has a private jet.

This I was not surprised at. I was more than a little surprised to find myself sitting in Ryou Shirogane's private jet only a few hours after learning of its existence with a bare-bones bag of clothes and necessities, a dimestore paperback mystery, and Ryou Shirogane himself in the seat across the aisle. Then again, that's one of the things I love about my job. You never can guess where you'll end up next.

The flight was duller than a James Joyce novel and not nearly as trippy. I figured out who done it in my book about fifteen pages in and kept reading for lack of anything better to do. Ryou had a laptop, and I was about as eager to nose in on his business as I was to jump out of the plane with no parachute, so it was a long, quiet ride.

"You should come over, freshen up," Ryou suggested as we unloaded from the jet. "Maybe have something to eat."

"I want to examine the body," I told him. "Not something you do in clean clothes on a full stomach. Can you get me there, or should I hail a taxi?"

"My money either way," Ryou pointed out. "I'll call a car."

The morgue attendant was a sullen, stoic fellow, gray-haired and clearly too long on the job. I've had better luck making small-talk with house cats than with this guy, but he didn't ask any questions either, which I was grateful for. One of the biggest problems with being a small time investigator is you don't have much in the way of official clout if institutions decide to close their doors on you, client confidentiality and all that. On the other hand, not reporting to a higher power sure is nice. I couldn't work in a police force. There are reasons I went solo after the Mews parted ways.

Anyway, cold silent morgue, chillier than a Canadian winter, or at least felt like it. The attendant revealed our boy with hardly a flourish, and I was suddenly glad I hadn't eaten first. My stomach twisted queasily, and although Ryou didn't make a sound, his face went white as a sheet. I'm willing to bet he was barely holding down bile too.

Death by drowning is never pretty. In Masaya's case it looked like he'd been in the river longer than he possibly could have, and maybe over a few waterfalls to boot. Bloated, purple flesh, blackening with rot towards the extremities, bones twisted at odd angles, all swollen as a sponge and stinking of damp. Really, I don't want to get too into it. Suffice it to say that I could only match the corpse to the _bishounen_ I had last seen dancing at Ichigo's wedding reception with the greatest difficulty. I might not even have recognized it as _human_ if I hadn't been told so.

Ryou took my hand. "Lettuce-san? Are you alright?"

Hah. Like he didn't have his lips pressed into a thin line himself. His concern was marred by his own frequent swallowing – he might have been taking it worse than me. After all, at least I had dealt with dead bodies before. And I can usually cope with grossness, if there isn't too much actual blood.

"I will be," I answered, then added to the attendant, "That's enough. Damn – how did you even know that was Aoyama-san?"

Ryou rubbed the bridge of his nose with his free hand as if he could scrub away the smell as the morgue attendant recovered the corpse. "DNA testing, mostly. Clothes, what was left of them. Wedding ring. Wallet. It was pretty obvious."

"Right." With the body away, I could breathe a little easier, but the morgue was making me shivery. I had to get out of here, to somewhere I could think. "Well, I've gotten all I can out of this, and I'd pay half my commission for a shower about now."

Ryou relinquished my hand – I think he had forgotten he was holding it – and gestured me ahead of him. "I can promise one of the best showers to be had in this part of town, but perhaps you'd like to talk to Mint-san first? It shouldn't take long, since she's not a suspect, and she's quite close by car."

Damn Ryou. He was right, though. If we were near Mint's place, I should talk to her first. She was as close to a witness as this case had.

So we drove to Mint's California mansion, still feeling dirty from viewing Aoyama's corpse.

The place was just as pretty as the photos on the invitation had portrayed it, of course, and I think that was one of the reasons I'd declined the reunion party. It made me feel self-conscious about my grimy New York City apartment, the best I could afford on private detective work. The gaps between our social status had always seemed relatively unimportant back when we were preteen idols, just more quirky traits to distinguish us – but they hadn't gone away when we got older, hadn't become less important. If anything, our wealth or lack thereof separated us more than ever as adults. Because I would never be as rich as Mint, not without the base she had started on, not without a more glamorous career than anything I would be willing to pursue.

I let Ryou knock on the door. Doors, really, a pair of great heavy wood things with an intricately carved brass knocker on one and a bird motif worked into the other. There was no immediate response, so I started looking for a bell, to no avail; fortunately, about when I was ready to just pull one of the things open and storm in, a sharply dressed butler-type opened the door. I admit I rolled my eyes.

"Yes?" he asked archly.

"Shirogane Ryou and Midorikawa Lettuce to see Aizawa Mint-sama," said Ryou in formal Japanese.

I bit back a laugh as the butler-type narrowed his eyes; he must be used to Mint's Japanese contacts visiting, but obviously they made him none too happy. "I apologize for my pretentious friend," I said in English. "I'm Lettuce Midorikawa, and he's Ryou Shirogane. I'm sure Miss Aizawa will agree to see us."

"Yes, I gathered," answered the man at the door. Now he looked slightly insulted. You just couldn't win. "Please come wait in the entrance hall; I'll go fetch Miss Aizawa."

I wasn't sure what kind of reception I expected from Mint. She had been cold when she first joined the team, and even under Ichigo's intensely warming aura, she had only been prone to displays of affection during moments when anything else would have been totally inappropriate. Probably the most intelligent of all of us, not that she showed it often, she had wisely stayed out of the Ichigo-centered love-polygons, kept her cool, and in the end used our secret to make yet more millions. She had probably reverted to a frigid bitch out of Ichigo's influence for so long.

When she opened the door into the hall where Ryou and I had been seated, it seemed my hypotheses were correct. She wore an elegant business suit, something that screamed collected and mature, if those concepts could be screamed; her hairstyle was formal Japanese, tresses so black they almost seemed to shine blue twisted tightly atop her head. Yet the second her navy eyes alit on Ryou and me, she took one glance over her shoulder and raced across the hall, impractically high heels clicking on the tiles. The next thing I knew I had been pulled to my feet in a suffocating embrace. "Lettuce-chan!" she exclaimed. "I didn't think any of us would ever see you again."

Japanese, of course, but for such an exuberant welcome I was willing to respond in my native language. "Aizawa-san," I began.

She released me and pressed a finger to my lips, cutting me off. Her sea-blue eyes were wide and earnest. "Mint-san, if you have to. But I would prefer 'chan'. Lettuce, you're one of the only people left I can be myself with. Pudding-chan has her family and Zakuro – Fujiwara-sama…" She stopped. "Ichigo-chan and Lettuce-chan are the only people left, and Lettuce-chan never visits anymore, so please speak freely."

I felt suddenly guilty. Had Mint honest-to-god missed me? The idea was mind-boggling. I had never thought anyone on the team would even feel my absence, especially if they saw Ichigo frequently. It wasn't like I had ever talked anyone through a crisis. I was the one who _had_ the crises.

"I'm sorry, Mint-san," I said, with a polite bow – more self-possessed than in my wildly apologetic youth, but too close for comfort to the girl I had been. "I hope I can visit for social reasons some time soon, but right now I'm here on business. I have to ask what you know about the murder of Aoyama-san."

"Murder?" Mint tilted her head like a bird, a gesture that must have been painful with her upswept hair. "But didn't anyone tell you? It wasn't a murder at all."


	4. Quartus

**.Quartus.**

"What are you talking about?" I demanded, shooting Ryou Shirogane a glare that should have skewered him to the wall he was leaning against. He didn't bat an eyelash, but Mint shrank back a little. I don't think she was expecting ferocity from me.

She quickly regained her composure. "He left a suicide note. It was found on his bed when the staff came in to clean up, but Ichigo-chan didn't want to keep it. Ichigo-chan…"

I nodded, well able to imagine what Ichigo's reaction to all this. Murder didn't happen in her world. Hell, _death_ didn't happen in her world. Having it come so suddenly and violently to the love of her life must have been like a sack of bricks to the head.

"Dammit. Shirogane, did you know about this?" I rounded on the blond, who was sitting cool as you please, leaned against the elegant marble wall of the foyer. "What the hell kind of investigation is this?" I had switched to English again; I've always felt the rougher language was more adequate for expressing anger. "It's closed already. You didn't need me."

"Look at the note, Lettuce-san," Ryou advised. "Before you tell me I hauled you here for nothing."

"May we see the note, Mint-san?" I asked politely.

My friend folded her fingers together. "Certainly. I'm sure the police want it for evidence, but I have it now if you're careful not to damage it."

"I'll treat it like a glass butterfly," I assured her.

The note looked rather unprepossessing, written in dark ink on slightly off-white paper. The neat kanji were probably in Masaya's handwriting, at least from what I remembered; bold and solid, without a wasted stroke. "Has the handwriting been authenticated? Wait, silly question, the police haven't gotten their hands on this yet. Hold on…" I held the paper up to the light; there was a watermark just visible. I laughed. "Never mind. It's probably a good forgery, but Aoyama-san never wrote this."

"What do you mean?" asked Mint, eyes big.

"This paper is from PressWorld, inc. They've dumped chemicals in every stream they can get access to and completely deforested enough mountains to relocate New York. Aoyama actively campaigns against them. He'd never use their paper."

"Are you sure?" Mint questioned. "I thought he'd never kill himself either."

"Maybe it was a final ironic touch," Ryou pointed out.

"I doubt he's that clever," I muttered. "But if he said anything about the sorry state of our planet I might believe it…" I skimmed the note, really reading it for the first time. "Nope. Just some stuff about life not being worth it, and an apology to his beloved Ichigo. Besides, that doesn't explain… other things. I don't believe it for a minute. Mint!" I rounded on the well-coiffed girl. "Where were you at the time of Masaya's death?"

She sat calmly in one of the benches against the wall. "I was giving a speech in the main hall. I had over a hundred people in the audience."

I had to admit that was a pretty rock-solid alibi. But I hadn't suspected Mint in the first place. She's rational, you see, and this was an irrational killing – so far. Furthermore, there was no motive; and now, no opportunity.

"Who else did you see in the audience?" I asked. It would be nice to be able to rule some more suspects out.

"I think Pudding-chan was there for the entire speech," said Mint cautiously. "She had to keep chasing her kids up to the stage and stop them from climbing it. I can't promise anyone else."

I nodded solemnly. "And what can you tell me about Aoyama? Maybe – it's a long shot, but just maybe – he knew someone was after him. Was he acting at all oddly at the party?"

"Not that I can recall," answered Mint.

"Did you see him beforehand?" I asked. "While he was here in the States?"

Mint's porcelain brow furrowed in though. "I ran into him about a week ago at a diner. He was having breakfast."

"Was Ichigo there?"

"No, she wasn't. I sat with him for a while. I guess he did seem a little…less upbeat than usual. I'm not sure."

I nodded. "Was that all?"

"Oh, I ran into him again at the law firm I use – I wanted to make sure my fireworks permit was up to date."

"You do that at a law firm?" I wondered aloud.

Mint shrugged. "Sorry, what was he up to?" I continued.

"Dropping off some papers. He didn't really say…" Mint paused, then added, "No Ichigo."

I frowned, feeling things in my brain go 'click'. "Okay. I think I have an idea as to what happened. But I'll need to check some things first. Ryou, can you call Pudding-san and Zakuro-san to see if they're willing to see me? In the meantime, I could use some food. And a shower."

"Sure thing," said Ryou. "Aizawa-sama," he added to Mint, giving a little half-bow, which she returned, murmuring, "Shirogane-sama," in her politest tones. She hugged me again. "Come visit more, Lettuce-chan. Please."

"Maybe I will, when this is over," I told her, but I knew it for a lie, and Mint's pretty canny. I'll wager she knew too.


	5. Quintus

_Author's note: Good heavens, I thought I finished posting this story last summer. I mean, it isn't even like I have to write any of it, just... geeze. Well, I apologize to anyone who read and enjoyed it for my tardiness. I'll get the rest up over the next few days._

**.Quintus.**

I'm not even going to get started on Ryou's house in these parts. It wasn't quite as expansive as Mint's estate, but it was damn pretty, and plenty big enough to get under my skin. He was a perfect gentleman; led me to a suite of rooms, told me I was welcomed to stay here until investigations were finished, and pointed out the bathroom. I stripped down and showered, and by the time I emerged dressed and clean, there was a note on my end table inviting me down to lunch, which just seemed extravagant.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the steamed-up bathroom mirror. The years had been a little harder on me than on Ryou and Mint. I wore my hair short now, the demure braids long since abandoned as impractical, and the green of it was streaked with grey. I had a lot more hip than when I was younger – no more _shojo_ slenderness. Grown women aren't all that attractive in the culture I come from, and I hadn't looked like a little girl in years.

I tried to fluff out my hair before I realized what I was doing, grimaced, and made myself stop. I was in a clean shirt. That was the greatest concession to Ryou's presence I was going to make, because if there ever was anything, it's been over for a long time.

He wasn't at lunch anyway. There was some sushi nicely arranged on a platter, which I devoured in an unladylike manner, and a note which put his driver at my command. So it was up to me to track down Pudding and Zakuro's addresses – some quick sleuthing on my cell phone was sufficient, since the internet is a wonderful thing.

Pudding was staying at a hotel which was considerably closer, so I decided I'd see her first, and swing by Zakuro's place on the way back; besides, she was the only one who had replied to my earlier calls, with a quick text message instructing me to stop by room 243 at any time. Zakuro was busy, or ignoring me.

It was a depressingly low-quality hotel, when I reached it. I asked the driver if he would wait for me, and he obliged with only a hint of disgruntlement. Like he had anything better to do. The lobby receptionist didn't say a word as I walked in to the hotel, confident as if I actually had rented one of the cheap rooms, and swaggered up the stairs. A glance at the distorted elevator doors convinced me I didn't want to risk that.

I knocked on the door of room 243. There was a great clamor inside, only slightly muffled by the walls; I could make out bits of strident Japanese and Chinese, Pudding's unmistakable mélange.

The door opened, and for a second I didn't recognize my former teammate. She was still golden-haired and shorter than me, but the verve that had always characterized her had dimmed to a dull spark; her tawny eyes were flat, and she radiated exhaustion rather than energy.

"Lettuce-chan." She gave me a harried smile. Around her I could see swarms of children; I was amazed the hotel room was still in tact.

"May I come in?" I asked.

"Oh!" She started, as though ashamed at this lapse of manners. "Yes, please. Choco, Riche, get off of that chair. Please, sit." Two children, probably between eight and ten, were shifted off the single arm chair in the room. I sat. "Are you here about Aoyama-kun?"

"I'm afraid so," I answered. A very small child grabbed my leg.

"Poor Ichigo-chan," Pudding sigh with genuine sympathy, then unstuck the toddler from my pants. "Bu, say hello to Lettuce-chan!"

The kid, who, like the rest of the brood, shared Pudding's mop of golden hair, looked at me solemnly and said, "Ko."

"This is Butterscotch," said Pudding, although it took me a moment to hear the English word in her pronunciation; she said it "Butascotchi," as near as I can transcribe. "And the rest are Bread, Rice, Choco, Plum, and Vanilla." Again, the English words are my guesses – they sounded more like Bedo, Riche, Purum, and Banira, but I was beginning to detect a theme.

Only six? By the chaos in the room it seemed like there ought to be more.

"They're… cute," I said, wondering who the father was and why on earth he wasn't helping Pudding. Six kids was clearly too much for her to handle on her own, but after ten years of silence between us, I couldn't quite bring myself to pry.

"A handful," Pudding admitted. That sounded like a gross understatement. The boy she had introduced as Plum was trying to climb the curtains.

"Right. Well, I won't be long. You were at Mint's speech when the murder was committed, so you aren't under suspicion, but I was wondering if there was anything you can tell me about who might have done it."

"Um… I don't think so," said Pudding, taking a moment to think of it. "I- Plum, get _down_ from there!"

I sat on the chair. Butterscotch reattached itself to my leg, and Pudding managed to get her son off the curtain rod.

"Sorry," she said, coming back. "Well, Zakuro left the speech half way through. She might have seen something."

I nodded. "Okay, that's very helpful," I said. "Did you see Aoyama-san before the party?"

"He came over to help me with the kids while I ran errands," said Pudding. "I didn't notice anything off… Vanilla? Did Aoyama say anything to you when he was over last week?"

The oldest girl, probably about twelve, looked away from the television. She wore her hair longer than her mother's, and seemed a bit more solemn than I would expect anyone related to Pudding to be. "He was quieter than usual," she answered. "Spent most of his time cooking our dinner. He always says he isn't as good a cook as Ichigo, but I like it when he cooks us dinner." She returned her attention to the anime on screen.

Pudding shrugged. "I'm sorry, that's all I can think of."

"It's plenty," I said, running another eye over the kids. _My god, do we all do the same things as our parents?_ Maybe Pudding just couldn't survive without having people depend on her. "I… if you need a hand while we're both in town, I could watch the kids some time," I offered suddenly.

"I'm fine!" sang out Pudding, all falsetto cheerfulness. "You just make sure whoever hurt Aoyama-kun gets what's coming to him!" There was a flash of her old fire under the fake optimism, but the next second she was running into the kitchen to get Rice away from the stove burners.

"I'll… see you around then," I told her.

"Bye-bye!" called Butterscotch, or something close to it.

I showed myself out.


	6. Sextus

**.Sextus.**

I had thought the hotel where Pudding was staying was crap, but Zakuro's was even worse. Motel rather than hotel, for one thing. The front desk gave me her room number sullenly but easily; I didn't even need to twist arms to get them to forget about their privacy policy. Maybe they didn't have a privacy policy. Walking around the outside, I located the door bearing the appropriate number and knocked on it. "Fujiwara-san?"

There was no response.

I knocked harder. "Fujiwara-san! For godsakes, it's me, Lettuce. Let me in."

The door opened a crack; I could see a chain holding it shut on the inside. "Lettuce-san?" The speaker had familiar violet eyes; at least I hadn't gotten the room number wrong.

"I need to ask you about Aoyama-san's murder," I told her. "I'm not going away until you let me in."

I had addressed her in English; she answered me in the same, competent from her many years abroad. "Fine. You might as well come in. I don't know anything."

She slid the chain and opened the door. A cloud of smoke drifted out; once I finished coughing, I noticed she had a cigarette in her mouth, and by the atmosphere in there, this wasn't her first. "Geeze. When did you pick up smoking?"

She shrugged. "If I'm lucky it will kill me before I'm forty."

The single bedroom was claustrophobic and full of the scent of nicotine. Zakuro sat down on the bed, which was unmade; some clothes took up the rest of it, so I sat on the chair, although I had to shift a stack of magazines off it first. Zakuro's magazines – old periodicals from her modeling days, with her in all her glory pictured on the cover.

"So Aoyama finally stuck out his head far enough that someone took it off," she said after a moment, taking a drag on her cigarette. "Not a surprise, with the people he was pissing off."

"Masaya had enemies?" I questioned, startled. This was the first I'd heard.

"If you follow the news… I think he's part of the Deep Blue Initiative."

"_What?_" My mind leapt. Some other alien plot? Could it be that?

"An ecoterrorism group. They think the aliens might have had the right idea. Humanity needs to be sabotaged. They destroy coal power plants and knock down buildings to plant trees and stuff. Hmph. They haven't caused enough damage for the government to go after them, but some corporations are steamed enough that I wouldn't be surprised if they took off-the-table action."

This was new information; I would have to revise my original theory if there actually were people in the world who didn't like Aoyama for professional reasons.

And how did Fujiwara know so much, anyway?

"Why did you leave during Mint's speech?" I asked suddenly, with as much aggression as I could muster.

"Can't smoke in there," said Zakuro, waving her cigarette through the air.

"Did you see Aoyama beforehand?"

"I didn't leave this room until the party," she sighed.

"Were you aware," I said, trying to read Zakuro's impassive expression, "that at the time of Masaya's death there was a power signature detected in Mint's mansion of the sort unique to the use of Mew abilities?"

Her face didn't twitch. "Lettuce, are you implying I had anything to do with it?"

"You know more than anyone else I've spoken to," I said.

"Who have you spoken to?"

"Mint, Pudding, and Ryou," I said before I thought, realizing as I spoke that it wasn't really a surprise Zakuro had been the first to give me this information. None of Mint's business would have touched on the environment; she dealt with stock, advertisements, and sponsorships, and if she knew about this Deep Blue Initiative, why would she connect it to Masaya? Pudding clearly didn't have time for anything outside her family, and Ryou… well, he's a bastard. He probably wanted me to figure it out on my own, and I admit I should have done my research beforehand, but I was so stuck on the idea that it was one of my teammates that I hadn't bothered to look for other possibilities.

"My point," said Zakuro, interrupting my thoughts. "Besides, if it was magic, I can't do that anymore."

"Magic?"

"I'm not a Mew anymore," said Zakuro. "I know the rest of you can still use your powers if you need to. I can't."

"I don't get it," I said, thinking this was a pretty poor defense.

Zakuro leaned over to the end table next to her bed, pulled open the drawer, and dragged out a pendant on a frayed ribbon. I recognized it; I had one of my own in my purse. It never seemed right to leave the thing home if I went out. "Mew Zakuro," she said, brandishing the tarnished piece of jewelry. "Metamorphosis!"

The golden pendant spun, glinting a little in the dim light, but nothing happened.

"It doesn't work," she said. "You have to believe in something for it to work. I don't."

"I don't know how that stands as proof," I said, as she shoved the pendant back in the drawer.

"Besides, would I be in a motel this shitty if I was a hired corporate assassin?" she asked with a dry, humorless laugh.

"Why _are _you in a motel this shitty?" I couldn't help myself. Zakuro Fujiwara was supposed to be the jetsetter, as high-flying and wealthy as Ryou or Mint.

"All I can afford," she said, leaning back onto her elbows. "I haven't modeled in years. I'm middle aged, Lettuce. I'm not attractive anymore. I'm living off my investments. Never went to college. No real skills." She took a drag on her cigarette and twisted her face as though she were going to spit. "This isn't how it was supposed to be. None of us wound up in the right place. We're not doing what we love. We're not with the people that we love."

"I like what I do," I said. "I'm happy."

"Maybe you got out of it soon enough," said Zakuro, closing her eyes. "I don't know. Did Ryou bring you here?"

"Yeah. Practically tied me up to get me on the plane."

"Su-ure." Zakuro drawled out the word with a heavy helping of sarcasm, clearly taking pleasure in it. "You talked to Mint-san?"

"Yeah?"

"How was she taking the situation?"

"As well as can be expected," I told her.

Zakuro reached out without looking and stubbed out her cigarette on an ashtray perched atop the end table. "That's good."

"Well, if you think of anything else, you can call me," I said. There was no motel stationary on the end table, so I pulled a notebook out of my own purse and scribbled down my phone number.

Zakuro was lighting another cigarette. "Could you tell Mint… oh, never mind. Good luck."

When I got back to Ryou's place, my employer was at home, sitting at the dinner table. "Good day?"

My stomach rumbled at the food set out on the table. Did he _always _eat that well?

"It's either Ichigo or Zakuro," I said, without a hint of uncertainty. "I should be able to tell you for sure tomorrow."


	7. Septimus

**.Septimus.**

"I won't pry into your deductive process, I suppose," Ryou said calmly, lifting a piece of tempura between his chopsticks. I wondered if this was really upscale food, or if he were trying to make me feel more comfortable. "Anyway. Sit. Eat. You've had a long day, it would seem."

"It's past my bedtime," I pointed out grumpily, suddenly tired and jet-lagged.

"Akasaka-san is stopping by," Ryou told me.

"Kiechiiro?" I asked. "Didn't know he was around here."

"He wanders. He stays in my places when he's in town." My host was utterly casual.

"Well, we'll have a lovely reunion," I said dryly, wondering how he had expected me to react.

"It is nice to be sharing a meal with you again, Lettuce-san," Ryou laughed.

"Again?" I was filling my plate with bite-sized fancies, as aesthetically as I could manage. "I don't recall us ever sharing a meal. I think I served you a few times. You might have fed chocolate to Ichigo once or twice. But I'm not sure if you can legitimately refer to us sharing a meal."

"So _bitter,_" Ryou lamented. "We have no reason to be enemies, Lettuce."

I noticed the dropped suffix; we were speaking in Japanese, making it all the more meaningful.

"You played me like a fiddle," I said. "And I was too naïve to notice. I think that's reason enough to be bitter."

"I don't see why you think I played you," he said. "Tea?" He slid the pot over the table towards me. It seemed too casual for the elaborate dinner setting.

"I thought you liked me," I said. "Sometimes. I was confused when you paid more attention to Ichigo. You flirted with us so you could control us, but she was the only one you really cared about. Everyone else was a _tool._ A tool that was more trustworthy if it was making doe eyes at you."

I realized I spoke in low, cutting tones; more of my passion and hurt bled through than I would have liked, more than I had thought remained. I should have been over this. Ryou looked at me with those big blue eyes, apparently a little surprised himself, and chuckled. "You make me sound like a monster. I think you've jumped from naïve to paranoid without stopping at sensible. I never lied to you, Lettuce."

"Not verbally," I shrugged, mastering myself.

"Not ever. You don't understand. Ichigo- I didn't care about her, not like you think. I wanted to protect her. That was what Ichigo was all about, that was the effect she had on guys. On everyone, really. We all wanted to protect her. But…"

He trailed off, looking down at his nearly empty plate.

"But what?" I hissed.

He looked up, faint spots of color in his cheeks, and spoke as if it were a great effort. It had to be a fake; Ryou never had a hard time finding the right words in his life. "But the only person I ever loved was you, Midorikawa Lettuce."

I surged to my feet. The table was just narrow enough for me to lean over it and slap him sharply; and before he could recover, I had whirled around and stalked out of the dining room. I suddenly wasn't hungry anymore.

_Watashiwa Midorikawa Lettuce ga daiskides._

Damn him. Damn the bastard to hell. He had no right to do this to me. I'm not a naïve little girl anymore.

I wasn't paying attention to where I was going. I think my mental state is aptly characterized by the fact that I walked right into the tall, ponytailed man standing in the middle of the hallway.

"Oof! What-" He grabbed my shoulders, shoving me about two steps backwards. I looked up into a familiar face, narrow and handsome, just starting to show signs of age. "Midorikawa-san?"

"Akasaka-san. I'm sorry," I apologized in Japanese, trying to bow, but his hands on my shoulders prevented me.

"What's got you storming around like a doused cat?" he asked. "Usually that was Momomiya-san."

"Ryou," I growled, not bothering with a respectful suffix. "Manipulative bastard."

"Ah." Kiechiiro's tiny, perpetual smile slipped a notch. "I told him you wouldn't be in the mood for confessions of affection."

"He _told_ you about this?" I snarled.

"And I told him he was going to need a bit more than a nice dinner to make up for, oh, how long has it been, fifteen years?"

"Was it your _idea_?" I demanded, feeling betrayed on all sides.

"No, I've been trying to indoctrinate him to my freewheeling playboy lifestyle," said Kiechiiro without a hint of shame. "But it's very important to be able to say 'I love you' to a girl if you want to sleep with her, and he freezes up every time."

"I think you're in on this," I told him harshly.

He shrugged and released me. "Then I guess I shouldn't tell you he's been pining after you on and off since you left for America," Kiechiiro said, apparently addressing the air.

"I wouldn't believe you. And on the off chance that it's true, he can keep on pining for all I care. I'm here to find out who killed Aoyama-san, and once that's done I'll be just as happy never to see the smug bastard again."


	8. Octavus

_Author's Note: Having received an absolutely wonderful review, I want to say thank you to Essense of Gold and... defend my LettucexRyou shipping?_

_Partly this was because he makes the perfect femme fatale – long-legged blonde sharing a history with the main character. Partly it's because I tend to go with the canon when it comes to pairings, and Ryou is the only person the manga even suggests liked Lettuce. She is the only character he is ever really kind too – he is a better person towards her than he is towards Ichigo._

_Unfortunately, the aliens do not make an appearance in this story. I've seen a lot of support for LettuceXPai on this site, though... It has been my experience in real life that shy people do not actually do well with other shy people, though, so I would insist on both of them maturing significantly from the series before I paired them._

_~Taidine_

**. Octavus .**

Who I accused now was dependent entirely on one thing: what sort of documents Aoyama-san had been dropping off at the legal office when Mint had run into him. But the office, when I went to visit the next morning, was having none of it.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," said the aid at the desk. "We can't release any of our clients' papers to the public. If you have a member of the police force, or a relative…"

"I just need to know what it was. Was he filing for a divorce?"

"I can't tell you that, ma'am."

"Just a hint, please. It's vitally important."

"I'm sorry, we can't release information on any of our clients," insisted the desk lady.

I wanted to scream with frustration. At last, having exhausted my patience, I made the most polite goodbyes I could and walked out, tense so I didn't look like I was storming.

Ryou had elected himself my driver for the day. I had been hoping he might have a bruise or something, but I guess I don't slap very hard. "Any luck?" he asked as I wrenched open the door. As if he couldn't tell!

"I'm being stonewalled," I growled. "You've got money. Can you convince them to release Aoyama-san's papers to you?"

"It'll take a few days," he said, shrugging with infuriating casualness.

"I don't have a few days," I told the back of his head. "Ichigo and Zakuro could both be back in Japan by then, or off the map entirely." For a second I simply glared at the back of his seat, wondering if I could burn holes in it with sheer force of will. I felt like a teakettle about to boil over. My eyes drifted up, to Ryou's blond hair, the dark choker he wore around his neck; and an evil thought occurred to me. "Hey, Shirogane."

"Yes?" he swiveled in his seat, a wary expression on his handsome features.

"Can you still turn into a cat?"

He made a face, and for a long moment the car was silent, but at last, with great reluctance, he admitted: "Probably, yes."

"So you can get a look at those papers," I said, grinning a little. It was not often I got to discomfit Ryou.

"Probably, yes. How do you even know about that? I thought I only told Ichigo."

"Ichigo again," I grumbled, some of my pleasure fading.

"I'll look at the papers for you," said Ryou hurriedly. "Kiss me."

"_What?"_

The bastard had the decency to look embarrassed. Not as much as he ought to, just a subtle lowering of eyes, but it was something. "So that I can change. It's… sort of mysterious."

Ichigo had suffered a similar problem, but I couldn't recall Ryou's transformation having required outside intervention. Still, he _had_ been pretty closemouthed about the details. Ichigo had told me about how Ryou turned into a cat too once, when someone had demanded to know how she had gotten out of this or that scrape, or I wouldn't have known at all. "Must be a pain in the ass for Akasaka-san. Isn't he trying to indoctrinate you into his free-wheeling playboy lifestyle?" I asked.

Ryou grimaced, opening the passenger-side door. "Not… no. I don't have to change every time I… what do you think this is, _Fruits Basket_?"

"So you _don't_…" I began.

I was cut off as Ryou leaned over the seat between us and grabbed the back of my head with one hand, pressing his mouth to mine. A second later, white light flashed, and a sleek gray cat streaked out the door Ryou had opened, towards the law office.

I scrubbed the back of my hand over my lips, trying to stop them from tingling.

He was gone for nearly an hour, leaving me sweating in the car with nothing to amuse me but the contents of my pocketbook. I doodled in my note pad for a while, scrolled through the contacts in my cell phone, and generally twiddled my thumbs. After a time I thought to turn on the radio, but there were only endless sports reports and local news; nothing mentioning the Deep Blue Initiative or ecoterrorists. In fact, even Masaya's murder seemed, for the time being, to have been forgotten. The media has the attention span of a four-year-old.

Finally, the cat returned. I grudgingly opened the car door so he could leap into the front seat and, with a twitch as though he were trying to shake off his fur, change back into Ryou. "Damn unpleasant," he muttered when he had vocal chords again, rolling his shoulders.

"Well?" I prompted.

"Right. He was at the office revising his will. It now leaves everything to Ichigo, rather than an assortment of environmental groups."

I drummed my fingers on the seat.

"That wasn't what I was expecting," I admitted. "But I think we need to have a word with Momomiya-san."

Ryou pulled his mobile out of the glove compartment and tabbed open his e-mail. "Fine…" he began, then stopped. "Hm. Not fine."

"What now?" I asked, resigned.

"I think we can rule out Zakuro," said Ryou grimly. "Despite the fact that they were asked politely by the local police to stick around, Ichigo has left the country in something of a hurry."


	9. Nonus

**. Nonus .**

"Where did she go?" I demanded, buckling my seatbelt as Ryou twisted the key in the ignition. The car took off down the street.

"I don't know. I didn't have much in the way of surveillance. A Masha 3.0 told me she was headed for the airport, but wasn't programmed to do anything else."

"You still manufacture those fuzzballs?" I asked. He tossed his mobile back over his shoulder, and I caught it. "And you call them all Masha's now? I thought Ichigo's naming the thing after her boyfriend annoyed you."

"I've said all I'm willing to on the subject of Ichigo," Ryou growled. "I won't demean myself any further. If you must know, 'Masha' tested better than a serial number. The 2.0's are the generally marketed models, glorified personal organizers, and they sell very well to preteen and teenage girls because they're _cute_. They needed a name."

"Does Ichigo get kickbacks?" I wondered aloud, looking at the email on the screen of the mobile device. "If we're heading for the airport, turn right. At least they might be able to tell us which flight she caught."

"If we know where she's going we can beat her there," Ryou agreed. "Do you have any inspired guesses?"

"Not yet. Turn right, I said."

The car squealed in protest as Ryou hung a hard right, sending us onto a side road.

"I think you should let me do the talking at the airport," he said, weaving his car through a gap that didn't look quite big enough.

"I was about to tell you the same thing," I remarked, tapping the screen on his mobile to see if there were any other interesting files.

"Can I have the phone back?" He asked plaintively.

"You're driving. We can split up," I decided.

"I didn't know we were together."

"When we get to the airport, numbskull."

I won't bore you with the proceedings. About an hour of inquiry ended with Ryou and I both stumbling in to the Starbucks in the terminal we had agreed to meet at, and gasping out more or less simultaneously, "New York."

"Of course, she might transfer there and keep going," Ryou pointed out.

"Where? If she wanted to get to Japan, she wouldn't want to travel across the United States first."

"But why New York? She must know you work there."

"Does she know I'm here?"

"How should I know?" Ryou ran a hand through his increasingly tousled blond hair, breathing deeply. "Okay, we'll head for the city. Let's move."

Back in the car. Ryou's driving was starting to scare me, but he had a single-minded concentration on the road that seemed to keep us in one piece. He called ahead to alert his personal air transport, and within the hour, I was on my way home.

I thought things would be uneventful, and they were for most of the flight; nothing but discussion of what to do when we got there, and precious little of that, since we didn't know what to expect. Ichigo remains something of a celebrity, so I hoped she wouldn't be too hard to find, but it was a slender hope at best. Then, just when the lights of NYC were visible as a dim smudge out the windows, my cell phone started buzzing. I checked the number; it was a call from Joe.

It seemed a little late for him to be in the office, but maybe he was taking advantage of the free internet or something. I flipped open the phone. "Hey, Joe-kun," I said.

"Hey, boss. Where are you? Still across the continent?"

"Actually, I should be back in the city in half an hour, but I won't be in to the office for a while yet. What can I help you with?"

"You might want to consider coming in. You've got a client."

"Two in as many days?" I asked with a raised brow. "News of my skills must be getting around. Who is it?"

Joe's reply was low, breathy, and slightly overawed. "You're not going to believe this, but she looks just like the pictures-"

I had a sudden, horrible feeling. "Who, Joe-kun?"

"Ichigo Momomiya!"


	10. Decimus

**. Decimus .**

The outer door to my office was cheap wood, with a frosted glass window and gilt letters reading 'Retasu Midorikawa, Private Investigator.' It was near the end of a long, dingy hallway. I wished the window was a little easier to see through, but I'd gotten frosted glass myself, for the sake of privacy. Who knew I'd be regretting it? At least there weren't any loud noises from within, like Joe screaming for mercy or guns firing. On the other hand, the silence could be just as ominous.

"We should call for backup," Ryou muttered as we crept up the hallway.

I nodded. "You go ahead. I doubt the response will be prompt, but worth doing."

"You can't be thinking of apprehending Ichigo on your own, can you?" hissed Ryou with a narrow-eyed glare. "She used her powers to kill Aoyama-san. What's going to stop her from doing the same to you?"

I dipped my hand into my purse, pulling out a tarnished golden pendant on a fraying choker and fastening it around my neck, beneath the collar of my shirt. It felt warm resting in the hollow of my throat. "I've still got a few tricks of my own," I told him, rummaging some more to find a pair of equally innocuous items. "Backup is probably a good idea, though."

We had made it to the door. I paused in front of it, taking a deep breath; then, without further ado, launched a kick at the flimsy wood, near the equally flimsy lock.

It flew open. Joe-kun sat at the reception desk with his feet up; standing a yard away was a small, slender woman, girlishness belying her true age, with fashionably bright clothes and brilliantly red hair. I didn't bother with pleasantries, brandishing the pair of castanets I had just taken out of my purse. "Lettuce rush!" I shouted, feeling the pendant flare.

Brilliant green light swept out in front of me, scattering papers and prompting cries of pain and outrage from both of the room's occupants, but I didn't stand around watching. I dove for the desk, wrenched open the drawer, and within seconds was pressing the barrel of the six-shooter I keep around for emergencies against Ichigo's temple.

"Momomiya Ichigo, you're under arrest for the murder of Aoyama Masaya."

For a second there was stunned silence. Joe was crouching in a corner, eyes big; Ichigo was kneeling on the floor, perfectly still. Only a second, though; then my former teammate began to laugh.

"Lettuce-chan," she managed. "Lettuce-chan, you really are too much. You think _I_ could kill Aoyama-kun?"

"Do you deny you fled Japan?"

"No, I was coming to you for help!" Ichigo exclaimed.

For a second I almost faltered. In stark rejection of logic, I wanted nothing more than to put away the gun, give her a hug, and promise all the help I could offer. I forced myself to remember Masaya's bloated corpse and mastered the impulse.

"Do you deny you were at Mint's mansion at the time of his death, and not present at the gathering that had assembled to hear Mint's speech?"

"No, but-"

"Do you deny that you, like myself, are still capable of using the powers you gained as a result of the Mew Project?"

"No," Ichigo murmured. "No. That's why I couldn't kill him, don't you understand?"

"I don't," I told her sharply. "You've got until the police show up to explain yourself, Momomiya, so start talking."

"It's different for you, you got out of it!" she exclaimed suddenly, her face reddening. "I couldn't. Millions of people, always thinking of me as Mew Ichigo, the heroine of a shojo story! It gets into your head, Lettuce-chan! It gets into _everything_. You _have_ to be the person they expect you to be. You're trapped. I'm trapped! I can't do anything out of character - Lettuce-chan, I'm still biologically sixteen! I should be thirty by now!" Her hands clenched, nails leaving light scrapes on the woodwork.

"I don't know why it is, but I'm stuck in a story. It's bigger than me. It's bigger than any of us. And… I couldn't kill Masaya even if I wanted to. I love him!"

Her voice died, laughter turning into a sob. Again, pity stirred within me, but I didn't dare give in to it, or allow the gun against her head to waver. "So what did he do? Cheat on you?"

"You still don't get it," said Ichigo quietly, staring at the grimy floor of my office. "It isn't that kind of story. I love Masaya, whatever I want. So I would never hurt him. I _could _never hurt him."

I thought maybe I did get it, just a little. A part of me had always known I had to get away, far away, from Ichigo if I ever wanted to stop being mild-mannered and apologetic, to star in my own story. But the idea of being trapped in a narrative role… "That's not going to fly in court," I growled. "So who was it? Zakuro? She knew about the Deep Blue Initiative."

"No, not Zakuro-chan," said Ichigo, flustered. "And it wasn't the Initiative – not really. Masaya-kun…"

She stopped, and I frowned, wondering what she was holding back; but it hadn't been to irk me that she had paused. She was staring at the office door. I slowly followed her gaze; the battered door hung partway open, and just past it stood a tall boy with soft, dark hair; one with whom I was more than passing familiar.

"Ichigo…" Aoyama Masaya murmured, then shifted his gaze to me, along with the pistol he held in one hand. "Lettuce-san. I knew involving you was a bad idea. Please – drop the gun."

_Author's Note: And now we see why I wanted to keep the canon backstory. Also, I like this cliffhanger. I may let it sit here a few days._


	11. Undecimus

_Author's note: Since I don't really like where this chapter ends, I'm just plowing through the the finish. A final thanks to all my reviewers and readers who appreciated such an unconventional and frequently satirical story!_

_~Taidine_

**. Undecimus . **

I let my revolver fall to the floor, relatively unworried, since I had not only never taken the safety catch off, but didn't commonly keep in loaded at all. Unless Joe-kun had been fooling around, there wasn't a single round in any of the six chambers. I couldn't tell whether Masaya's weapon was any more dangerous, but I wasn't willing to risk it. Ichigo slowly stood, glanced at me once, and darted over to her husband, wrapping her arms around his chest. His gun arm never wavered.

"What's going on here?" I asked, raising my hands into the air.

"Take off the pendant, too," Masaya told me. "I don't want to take any chances. And then sit down."

I did as I was told, placing my pendant on the desk, then stepping back, righting the desk chair I had knocked down with my grand entrance, and taking a seat.

"Right." Masaya lowered his gun and stepped forward to take possession of the pendant. "I guess you want to know what I have to say for myself."

"I do," I confirmed. "I saw a body. Granted, it didn't look much like you, but they told me the DNA matched."

"Ah – that. Alien technology. That's part of why I had to disappear in the first place." He looked around for somewhere to sit, discovered the reception area only had the chair I was sitting on, and opted for leaning against a wall instead, draping one arm around Ichigo. "I guess I should start from the beginning.

"As you probably know, Ichigo and I benefitted the most, at least monetarily, when Mint released the real identities of the Mews. It was the Mew Strawberry everyone wanted on their merchandise. And _we_ wanted to do something worthwhile with it, so I sunk most of it into the Red Data Society, which works to save endangered species across the world."

"I've heard of them," I admitted, not adding that I thought one of their pamphlets was sitting with the rest of the junk mail in the unlit grate of my fireplace right now.

"Well, one thing led to another, and I became a very large shareholder in the RDS – very large indeed. Big enough to become one of the higher-ups, and for them to let me in on their ultimate plans. You see, the owners of the RDS were concerned what they were doing wasn't enough. Humanity just won't take threats to the planet seriously. Two things were needed for the future of the environment – a backup plan in case humanity continued with their wanton destruction, and a wake-up call ordinary people might pay attention to."

"The Deep Blue Initiative?" I asked.

"Covered both of those imperatives. With my funds it was possible to start the Initiative without connecting it to the RDS. It engaged in both eco-terrorism and exploration of alien technology left behind on Earth.

"Obviously I stepped on some toes while I was engaged in this. Things went wrong. Companies wanted the Deep Blue Initiative ended. And worse, someone managed to trace it back to the RDS, and me in particular.

"The Deep Blue Initiative needed to be scrapped, the useful bits absorbed back into the RDS, and some sort of scapegoat provided. It was decided I would take the fall for their illegal activities; and recent tech based on the study of Chimera Animals provided the perfect solution. I was going to have to leave the picture in the most permanent way possible."

"So you updated your will to leave everything to Ichigo and decided to carry out a 'suicide' at Mint's party, where there would be hundreds of witnesses to absolve your wife," I hazarded.

"Right. Except when it came down to it, the Chimera-based creature, which was essentially an organic blob that would mimic my DNA patterns, didn't work as well as we thought it would. It needed a jolt of energy to get it working, which meant a Mew. Ichigo had to set it off. I wrote my suicide note with paper and ink she grabbed for me, hoping that would cover her tracks, then sent her back to the party. A few minutes later, I rendezvoused with Zakuro so she could bring me to the airport and put me on a plane to New York."

"She _was_ in on it!" I exclaimed.

"You were supposed to be too," Masaya told me. "Ichigo decided we would meet at your office; she was certain you'd offer her a place to stay for a few days. The plan was to move on from here to England, where I still have a house from my university days, and disappear. Then I would be safe from repercussions, and Ichigo would be able to live her life as she wants to, without her adoring public dictating everything she does – consciously or not."

He lifted his gun again. "I hope I can count on your silence."

At that moment, the door slammed open, one of the much-abused hinges giving way. "Lettuce-san, the police will be here-" began Ryou before he had taken in the scene. His eyes flicked from Masaya to Ichigo to the gun to me, and narrowed. "How…?"

"It's a long story, and I think we'll be taking our leave now," said Masaya, trying to keep the gun on everyone at once. It rested momentarily on me. "As I was saying, regarding silence…"

"Lettuce!" Ryou exclaimed. I can imagine his thought processes, but didn't have time to correct them. Without another word, he leapt at Masaya – apparently the scrawny idiot thought he could overpower a man with a firearm – and attempted to tackle him to the ground.

Masaya's gun went off, with an earsplitting crack of powder and an explosion of pain in my leg.

Have I mentioned despite my many years as a private investigator, I'm not very good with blood? Particularly my own.


	12. Duodecimus

**. Duodecimus . **

When I regained consciousness fully – semilucid moments in the ambulance don't count – I was in a hospital bed, my leg in so many bandages I couldn't make it stir, sunlight on my face, and Ryou sitting on a chair next to me. My first word was unprintable.

"Lettuce-san? You're awake?" asked Shirogane, jerking out of a half-asleep daze.

"I wish I wasn't," I managed. "My leg feels like someone put a bullet through it."

"Someone did," Ryou pointed out.

"And it feels like it. Ichigo and Masaya?"

"Long gone," he reported. "Slipped away before the police showed up, while you were bleeding out on the floor. They're probably halfway across the world by now."

"Probably," I agreed. "He wouldn't have shot me on purpose, you know."

"Sure looked like he would," said Ryou, eyes flashing.

"No, he had to follow the same rules as Ichigo."

"What?"

"You wouldn't understand." I waved a hand vaguely. "It's a Magical Girls thing. By the way, payment is due by the end of the month."

"Huh?"

"My commission," I said wryly. "You're not getting away with not paying me. I not only solved your mystery, I got shot for you."

"For me?" asked Ryou. "How sweet. But…"

"But what?"

"Never mind."

I was back at work a week later, on crutches but not in too much pain. It hadn't been a terrible wound, just bloody.

It was a grey, rainy day, the sort where the only thing to look forward to is a hot cup of coffee. No one would be out in this weather to hire a private investigator; or so I thought. But when I hobbled into my office, Joe tossed me a salute. "Hey, boss, you've got that knockout in your office again."

"Ichigo?" I asked with a flare of panic. Why would she…

"No, the blond," he laughed. "Not that Momomiya-san wasn't fine, but I wouldn't mess with her boyfriend myself."

"Husband," I corrected, walking past the desk and opening the inner door, which had developed a slight creak. Sure enough, Ryou Shirogane was sitting on the edge of my desk like he owned the place.

He held out an envelope. "Your commission, Midorikawa-san. Plus a small bonus for everything I put you through. You'll find your hospital bills have been taken care of."

"Gee, thanks," I said, taking the envelope. A moment passed in silence, and for once I was the one to break it. "Okay, look. If you happen to be in town, and happen to want to talk over coffee or have dinner or something-"

He grinned. "I wasn't going to suggest we give it another try. Given your response last time, I thought my face would be the better for silence."

"Oh, excellent deduction. You should give up your wealthy lifestyle and join my team as a PI," I told him.

"I don't think so. Interested in giving up your deadbeat career and marrying one of Japan's most eligible bachelors?"

"Not on your life," I told him, making my way to the chair behind my desk.

"Dinner, then. Do you have plans this weekend?"

"I could probably clear my calendar." I lowered myself into the chair slowly, propping the crutches against the wall next to me. "There's a nice place in SoHo I'd like to try if you're buying."

"I was actually thinking Paris," said Ryou. "I'll call you on Friday."

"Yeah, bugger off," I muttered, shuffling some paperwork so I'd look like I was doing something. "Oh, Ryou?"

"Yes?"

"Do you _really_ need to kiss someone to turn into a cat?"

He grinned wickedly at me and ducked out the door, shutting it behind him.

- Fin -


End file.
